Thanks, Harvest, You Good Ol' Sonofabitch.

This upcoming weekend is Thanksgiving… in Canada. I’ll refrain from calling it the “real” Thanksgiving, and instead, just accept that our southern neighbo(u)rs like having their big holidays mashed together like peas and potatoes on Uncle Jim’s plate.

Personally, I’m a big fan of having Thanksgiving in early October.  It eases me into the fall spirit, gives me a long weekend to drink away cope with the loss of summer, and makes way for the best holiday of all: Halloween.  Unlike many people, I have only grown to love Halloween more and more with age. Sure, as a child it was fun shit with the free candy, but as far as I’m concerned, drinking in a costume surrounded by other people drinking in costumes wins. Hands down. I can buy my candy on sale on November 1^st, or steal it from children like the rest of the world.

No? That’s not what you do? Interesting…  But there’s plenty of time before Halloween, and right now I’m talking about Thanksgiving.  Let’s stay on topic.

In Canada, Thanksgiving is an annual holiday to give thanks to the close of the harvest season. We’ve been celebrating this shit since 1957. A whole 54 years. Don’t our deep-rooted traditions and rich history just warm your heart? 

While our Thanksgiving may not have anything to do with pilgrims and slaughtering, and may not have started in 1863, WHADDUP America, Canada takes pride in its ability to turn out some pretty badass cornucopias.

"Horn of Plenty" is right.

Jealous?  Yea, that’s what I thought.  I bet you didn’t expect a history lesson on Canada’s shortcomings awesomeness. You’re welcome.

This year, I’m heading to my native land of Ottawa, Ontario, to bask in the glory of giving thanks. This means 2 things: #1 I’m going to eat a shit-ton of food and #2 I’m going to drink a shit-ton of booze. During these consumption escapades, I’ll be sure to pay homage to our national holiday by rolling around in some leaves, stabbing a pumpkin and making a scarecrow (as #2 above ^ pretty much results in that outcome anyway.)

This year, some friends and I will also be doing the hour drive to go here:

Parc Omega! Throw your kids out the window and drive like fuck!

Words can’t describe how hard I hope to see this kid jumping around, unclaimed and unsupervised in front of moving traffic with wild animals.  This is the stuff dreams are made of, people.

And you can imagine my delight and excitement to see they have these little fuckers treats on their premises, as well:

Oh haiiiiiiiiii

 

Stay tuned, folks, this Thanksgiving’s going to be amazeballs.

Shut Your Face, Princess.

Ever notice how people talking loudly in a group when you’re alone is just about the most annoying thing since crying plane babies? Ever find yourself gripping your seat to avoid throwing slapbombs and yelling irrational, crude insults that warrant serious suspicion of Tourettes? Ya, me too.

Recently, while riding along on a particularly empty subway car, I sat perched across from a group of 4 to 5 ‘young adults’.  (This is a term I use loosely, since I can’t tell the difference between 16 year olds and 24 year olds anymore. Thanks, hormone-infused-food, you make me pervy even when it feels like it should be legal.) These punks were loud, laughing and having a jolly fucking time and were, therefore, extremely irritating. Everything that came out of their chirpy mouths felt punch-worthy.

What’s that? Your super-new sparkly jacked up phone has all the cool shit your friends are envious of?  Congratulations, asshole.

Your new haircut is tots not what you wanted? OMFG!  How will you go on!?

Your friend’s boyfriend’s cat’s lover’s owner’s cousin is having a party and didn’t invite you? NO FLIPPING WAY. Let’s go burn down his house.

Here’s an idea: instead of talking, you should consider shutting your stupid face.

…

P.S. I am totally one of those annoying twenty-something bitches, except everything I say is a gift. You’re welcome, world.

Back off, I bite.

It’s Monday- which effectively means I’ve spent the day fantasizing about punching a kitten or lighting something on fire.*   Last night, my unconscious self must have thought it would be flippin’ hilarious to play a trick on my it’s-6am-are-you-fucking-serious? self. I found my phone/alarm clock wedged between pillows, which were lodged between the mattress and the wall.   It’s hard enough for me to wake up just enough to hit snooze for thirty minutes when my phone is sitting peacefully on my bedside table. When I have to dig like a motherfucking gopher just to hit snooze, the world had better watch its back.

I learned months ago that public transportation in Toronto at 7:30am is the modern day version of Chinese Water Torture, in that it will test your patience until you find yourself slinging your free Metro newspaper at the face of the nearest son-on-a-bitch that keeps bumping their oversized bag into your hip.  Plus everyone smells like bad breath and unwashed sheets.  Someone needs some Downy, stat.

So, to avoid the inevitability of being arrested for violent misconduct (that’s a thing, right?), I’ve resorted to biking to and from work, where I am free to flip off whoever the hell pisses me off, without having to then stand next to them in a confined tube, filled with rage and discomfort. Biking isn’t without its frustrations, but at least I don’t have to smell anyone’s coffee breath 3 inches from my face. (Unless something goes terribly wrong, but then the coffee breath probs won’t be the main concern at that point… but I digress.)

When I do have to resort to taking the subway during rush hour, I am rapidly transformed into an impatient efficient, don’t-take-no-shit-from-no-one, speed-walking bitch- and the rest of the world suddenly can’t walk in a straight line.  Either I missed one hell of a party last night, or you asshats need to figure out your left and rights before you leave the house.  If your excuse is that you’re still drunk, it’s 7:30am, buddy. We should probably just be friends. I’ll put up with your inability to navigate the subway system, if you’ll supply me with flasks and mints to cover the shame.

Somehow I’m back to talking about drinking.

Perhaps the main problem with the Monday morning commute isn’t (entirely) the cattle that can’t walk, it’s really that I’m wineless and I have a full 5 days to wait before morning drinking will be acceptable once again. And by acceptable, I mean ‘gets you dirty looks from parents with young children in the park.’

*I don’t actually punch kittens. Please don’t send me angry letters about animal cruelty. Kittens are super-awesome-furballs-of-joy.

Accurate.

Thank you, Urban Dictonary, you've explained a lot.
My problem isn't alcohol, it's all the dinosaur in me.  Thank god.


Define  Brittany:
One who was a dinosaur in a previous life. She usually demonstrates her past life through excessive roaring when stressful situations are encountered. .

Roar, bitch.

It's like asking me to smell your fingers.

Have you seen that Downy commercial that gets all these different people to lie on this bed out in a park? They are all “Smell this pillow! Take a big whiff!”

Then Downy goes “we washed these sheets a week ago.” And the people in the commercial are all “Wow, that’s incredible!!!!” 

Stop right there, Downy. If I were one of those people, I’d be all “WHAT THE FUCK BRO! Why did you ask me to put my face against this shit? How many people have rolled their filthy bodies against these sheets? Are these Doritos crumbs?”  
 

Also, why is there a bed in the park?  Do the homeless sleep in it? And is this soap strong enough to cover up the smell of hobos? Cuz I know some select people that might get excited about this.

And if you haven’t seen it… you can see it here… But you’ve been warned:

...Just wash your sheets more often, people. Just because it smells clean doesn't mean it's not covered in your grime and juice. For real. 

Good Ol' Fashioned Throw Down.

I just got back from a 5 day weekend, and seriously, whoever advertises ‘vacations’ as ‘relaxing’ can go fuck themselves.

I need a vacation after my vacation.

But then I’d just be more exhausted.

This is getting complicated.

More tequila, please.

Since my brain is still drunk  turned to mush  on vacation still, I will let my friends help me out.  When I was in Montreal this weekend, I had the liberty of chatting with some pretty fantastic people. Half way through some of these conversations, I had to stop to take note.  

Behold… Great Ways to Start a Conversation:

“Let me start by saying, my sister is certifiably crazy.”

“The last time I blacked out…”

“Hi. Your boobs look amazing.”

“She threw a wine glass, full of wine, at me. Glass included.”

“A minister called me a cunt.”

“Can I just ask… why is Sarah Jessica Parker allowed on TV?”

“Tall women are the giraffes of lesbians.”

“After visiting prisons, I realized they remind me a lot of high school.”

“Drinking is a lot easier if you don’t work.”

For those of you who know think I have a drinking problem, thank blame my friends. They’ll probably challenge you to some cunty, giraffey, prison-like wine battle.    

(But watch out for some of them, because they bite. I have the marks to prove it.)

Contagious, like VD

After years of having roommates, some batshit crazier than others, (more on that later…) I moved out on my own and swore I’d never look back.

This was back when I was living in Montreal, where the cost of a large one bedroom apartment downtown roughly gets you a shoebox-size shithole on Pimp’s Lane in Toronto.

I decided to do the irresponsible adventurous thing and quit my job to move to a city where I can barely afford soap. Living alone was clearly not an option, but lucky for me, an old friend of mine had already been living in the city for awhile, and was looking for someone to live with.  Probably shoulda stuck to craigslist, eh, roomie?

With the inevitable stint of unemployment in my midst, I did what any broke person in desperate need of money would do… I slept, and drank.

Rest assured, my loving roommate was always looking out for me. Much like a pet, she was sure I got my nourishment, one way or another. One late morning I awoke to a text that read, “Hey, I’m pretty sure I left a half-eaten peach on my bed.”  Followed by, “You’re welcome to eat it.”  Thank you. You’re the sweetest.

We have lasted almost a year together now, and she’s awesome enough that I’ve kept track of some of the ridiculous and enlightening things that come out of her mouth.

This morning I stumbled upon this gem.

“I kinda feel like Beyonce’s energy is contagious… Also, I like replacing the ‘boy’ part in her song If I Were a Boy with things that I’m doing at the time. Like, if I’m making beans, I sing ‘If I were a bean’.”

You’re the best.

Say Thank You.

Our landlord is ungrateful.

He should consider himself lucky that I’ve restrained from bouts of hysterical laughter at the mere mention of his name- Ballwant- But instead of being appreciative, he carries on as if I owe him something.  You’re not fooling anyone by saying your name is Bill.

Be appreciative, Ball, cuz that shit’s fucking funny.

Text of the day:   “Some asian lady just saw my boobs.”

---
Side note: 


Working in an office can be extremely frustrating.
You try sitting quietly when you overhear a girl say, "Steve, it's too small, I don't like it. I just don't like it."
Come on now. That is just crying for a "That's what she said!"

... but I learned my lesson from the awkward looks I got when I sang "hide your wife, hide your kids, compliance is coming around."
These people have no sense of humour.